


Star Cross'd

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Brace yourself, I killed my heart writing this, I really hope you like it, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Romeo and Juliet, M/M, Mafia AU, Oh Dear, RusAme, RusAme Secret Santa 2017, SoThatGrass, Suicide, Warring Mafia Families, You Have Been Warned, content warnings, for, pure angst, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 04:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: His heart was so big, so filled with the endless capacity to love.  It didn't matter that he lived and worked in both the normal, mundane world and the organized crime that spread in an empire at his father's behest; Alfred used love and righteous fury to survive, to thrive in a world that would've swallowed him, drowned him in the depths of the blackest hatred.  He pushed past the strangler coils of venom laced rope, inky dark and just as lethal, and came out atop it all.But even hearts are only so big, and humans so fragile.And even the strongest hearts can break.





	Star Cross'd

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this killed me. This really did me in while writing it, my heart wrenched, and I went through god only knows how many tubs of ice cream trying to keep myself afloat. But dear, you asked me to "kill your heart," full of angst, and so I deliver! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, @sothatgrass, from your Secret Santa!

            You couldn’t help who you fell in love with, he’d learned.  Oh, he’d tried.  He’d tried so, _so_ unbelievably hard to hate him.  He’d tried to despise him, disdain him, or even just to not _like_ him.  His family disdained the other man and _his_ family with the power of umpteen burning suns, though the reason for it was long forgotten.  The feud carried on regardless.  He’d grown up knowing who he was, knowing what it meant to be a member of his Family, and a member of their Clan.  Just as he’d known who he was, his father and his uncles had taught him equally of who his enemies were.  And _he_ was one of them – one of the forbidden families who defied his father’s control on the Underground Empire that Matthew, his beloved twin, was set to inherit – and his family _raged_ against them.  But they belonged to an Empire far older than his father’s and they wouldn’t be so callously stopped.  He’d grown up knowing that he was meant to hate him.

            But his heart was so big, his mind too curious…he didn’t have it in him to _hate_ the way his family wanted him to.

            His hate was a fickle thing, light and impermanent like the winter snowfall this far south.  It was hardly predictable, and rare did it stay for longer than his anger lasted.  He held no grudges – they hurt his heart so dearly, he couldn’t quite bear it – though he did get angry.  He had no qualms about the life he was born to, though perhaps once he’d wished it would be softer for him, and his anger, his _wrath_ , was a hard-won triumph against his father’s overprotective oppression.  His anger – at his family, at the injustice he’d been dealt, at the Underground that expected him to _understand_ ( _hecouldn’thecoudn’tever-noforgiveness, nojustice,onlypain)_ – crowned him, even as he’d grown into his place in their world.  It had given him his name.

            The Flower Prince.  It was a very deceptive name, almost light and nonthreatening; to many who weren’t in the know – and especially to the alphabet agencies that watched for dangerous people coming out of the underground – it was someone pretty, gentle, and without a threat besides his name.  But to those who adored flowers, who loved nurturing them from the soil and admiring their beauty in its totality…they were always, _always_ wary, because no natural flower was left unguarded by their thorns.  He was his father’s son in almost every way that mattered, but he’d always favored his _papá_ ’s style on terms of disposing of his enemies.  Gunshot wounds were very obvious, very overt, and very fatal – he would never disagree with that, of course – but who would ever think a young delivery man carrying a bouquet of tulips, or morning glories, and a packet of flower seeds was dangerous in any way?

            After all, tulips were only poisonous when you ate them.  And so very few of his targets ever realized what killed them in the end.

            And still, that anger hadn’t been enough to stir the black poison of hatred in his veins; it hadn’t called forward the night-dark seethe of hatred and blind rage to threat through his very being.  No.  For all his rage, all his wroth, all his anger…he was a light soul.  He loved stronger than his anger, he raged in the name of heart.  When he hated, it was a shade of love that provoked it, and it refused to color as deeply, as malevolently, as the blind, all consuming destructive force normally did.

            They’d met at a midnight much like this one, he remembered bleakly.  The snowfall was light and beautiful, but a storm had raged the night before, and the sidewalks were laden with the weight of silken sparkling snow.  And much like this night, the snow was streaked with the rich, darkest shades of crimson they’d both been intimately familiar with.

            They’d been chasing the same target, he’d realized early on, though they hadn’t quite figured out who their competition was.  Early on, when they’d still been trying to be moderately stealthy, it had been irritating enough to realize their attempts were being voided by _another_ agent.  The target had started to grow paranoid, and wouldn’t take any of the food or drink that Alfred had secretly dosed, and avoided the syringe of concentrated nightshade extract he’d nearly succeeded with.  So they’d had to become more overt in their attempts, and they tried one-upping each other.  Unfortunately, it had simply alerted their target instead, and they’d had to abandon all stealth when he’d bolted from his office and made for safety.  From there on, it had turned into a far more overt competition than who could kill him first.  He’d shot a perfect line of bullets that streaked across the sky aimed at the unlucky target while balancing precariously on a telephone line.  The target, by some twist of fate, dodged behind the enormous 18-wheeler truck that chose that moment to turn the corner, and as Alfred huffed in growing frustration, he’d seen the other hitman slingshot over the roof and aim a viciously sharp throwing knife at the target’s unguarded back as he leapt for the next roof.  The target tripped over a crack in the asphalt and the knife embedded itself inches from his body in the concrete.  Alfred could hear the other man’s snarl from two blocks across the heavy traffic, and he’d vaulted himself off of the telephone line to resume chase.

            As one could probably tell, it devolved from there.

            They’d tried to tackle their target and ended up tackling _each other_.  They’d wrestled with each other for what felt like ages before they simultaneously noticed their panting, exhausted target making to get away.  Two guns popped up, aimed as well as they could still tangled up together, and this time, their aim was true.  The target fell.

            It was only _then_ that they’d looked at one another, and, under a shaft of that midnight moonlight, _recognized_ each other.

            He was _still_ pretty positive his family healer was stalking him trying to find out why he’d dragged himself home in such a shitty state when his target had been some wealthy, overweight, cowardly, corrupt CEO that had never seen the inside of a gym in his life.  Their first instinct upon seeing each other had been, unsurprisingly, violence.

            It had gone fairly well – Alfred was no slouch when it came to self-defense – until Ivan had gotten a firm grip on him, and used his weight and height advantage to keep him down.  He’d laughed when Alfred started to swear at him in various languages, including Ivan’s native Russian, and with a smarmy smirk that Alfred had wanted to knock off his face, he’d told him that it was one of the more decent nights he’d had.  He looked forwards to their next one.

            Then, he’d knocked Alfred out with a single, precise blow to the head.  Alfred came to, in possession of everything he’d owned _except_ his state ID.

            It didn’t stop him from being surprised when he walked into his dance studio one morning and saw a large bouquet of flowers – all his specialties, the ones he used in his poison cocktails and for the garnish on food that fooled even taste testers – and a handwritten card with his ID taped to it.  The card had said, in a cheerful, elegant scrawl, _“You are beautiful when you sleep.  Like a sunflower washed with silver moonlight_.”

            And yes, that was as creepy as the picture attached to it of Alfred sprawled across his bed in his apartment within the city, snoring, dressed only in his boxers and an overlarge t-shirt that had once belonged to his ex-boyfriend, with a _very_ conspicuous shadow – camera and all – standing over him. 

            Yet, as the weeks passed, and the flowers didn’t stop, he’d also found himself oddly flattered.

            He’d run into the man on other jobs they’d been assigned to, competing for the kill like they had the day they’d first met.  He’d bumped into him on late nights at the bar, when the other man would see him, grin, and start a bar fight just to see him grimace and join the fight.  He’d get deliveries of flowers – all his favorites – and chocolate, wine, and his takeout from his favorite burger place, none of it poisoned, even.  He’d have people at the studio where he worked and practiced and honed his flexibility giggle and smile slyly whenever they saw a delivery coming in.  And as the months passed, he realized that the other man had actually begun courting him the traditional way.

            They’d never actually introduced themselves to each other.  So, Alfred had felt the need to resolve that issue.

            The next time they’d met, clashing over a target, Alfred had taken care to poison the target’s morning coffee rather thoroughly, and then threw himself at the other assassin and pinned him to the floor of the copy room he’d blocked off with quarantine tape stretched over the door.

            _“ **You** ,” he’d growled to the man thoroughly tangled in the unplugged copy machine’s wiring, with a nonetheless smug smirk on his pale face as Alfred pinned him in place, “What the fuck is your name?”_

_The violet-eyed Braginsky blinked at him, startled.  “I thought you would’ve figured it out by now,” he said dryly, one brow raising in question._

_Alfred scoffed, “Of course I know what your name is,” he grouched, “but you’re sending me flowers, chocolate, and seriously creepy pictures telling me I need to increase my security or move,” at this Ivan smirked unabashedly, the asshole, “and you’ve never fucking introduced yourself, dude.  Unlike you, **I’m** not a creepy jerk who steals someone’s IDs instead of introducing myself, and then breaks into their apartment.  Not cool!”_

_“That’s what this is about, then?” his current captive inquired, amusement crossing his face, and something cunning sneaking through his eyes, “I think you went a bit overboard if all you wanted was an introduction.”_

_At that, Alfred smirked, leaning back from where he’d been looming over the other, still straddling the older man, “Oh that,” he drawled, “no, that’s so you don’t get to the target before the poison does its work,” and he threw back his head to laugh, giddy, when he saw Ivan’s eyes widen as if he hadn’t even contemplated that Alfred had **already** gone after the target before ambushing the Russian._

_He dragged himself back down to earth **real** quick when he heard the sound of wires **tearing** and just barely dodged Ivan’s tackle.  He was, however, snagged by the corner of his sleeve and pressed up against the door he’d locked up tightly._

_“I’m afraid,_ дорогой _, I’ll have to give you that introduction at a later date,” was chuckled into his ear, before the door – and **him** , because yes, he was **still** pressed against the damned door – was shoved outwards, yanking the poor wooden portal off its hinges and breaking the locks.  Alfred yelped as it dropped heavily against the wooden portal, pushing himself up as quickly as he could only to catch sight of Ivan’s booted feet and the tail end of his scarf disappearing around the edge of the hallway._

_It had been too late, either way.  By the time the Russian had made it out of the copy room, the nightshade had done its work, and the target had died.  He’d found that out when Ivan broke into his apartment, yet again, and decided that would be a good time to do the introduction Alfred had ambushed him for._

_Attempting to throw him off the sixth story bedroom window hadn’t worked either.  He’d forgotten the fire escape._

            It kind of settled after that.  They’d started not-dating, before they started not-courting, and then, after more than a few expectant comments from his studio, they started doing things properly.

            By which he meant, of course, in their own nutty, crazy, figure-it-out-ourselves kind of way.  But the denial had gone out of the window, and there wasn’t a soul who’d see them together and deny they were a couple.

            After two years, they’d realized it wasn’t a fling; it wasn’t something temporary, or something they should hide.  Two years and some odd months since they’d started a complex dance bringing them together as something more than two people, more than just a single soul split apart; as something precious, perfectly imperfect and wondrous in a way they couldn’t quite explain.  It had grown from a whim, to denial, to something more powerful than Alfred had ever expected it to be.

            All his life, he’d loved so powerfully, so purely, and so unreservedly.  But as the years passed, he’d realized that there had been no love he’d ever experienced that was as powerful as that which had developed between him and Ivan.

            He’d thought – _they’d_ thought – that it would be enough.

            Ivan had taken him home, after all.  He’d met Natalia and Katyusha – he and Natalia were working up to be the best of friends – and they’d been _happy_ for them.  He’d overheard Katyusha talking to her aides saying the end of the feud would be a wonderful thing for them all – they were all worn down by the stress it provoked, and peace was well anticipated and well received.  He’d been thrilled.

            So…he’d gone to his father.

            He’d begged, his mind whispered tauntingly, he’d pleaded with his father to just _consider_ it.  _Meet him_ , he’d implored _, you’d like him_.  He’d spoken for what felt like hours at his father’s side, that acidic green gaze leveled on him, unwavering, as the truth of their years long deception came flooding out.  He’d clasped both of his hands around his father’s and clutched them close, _I love him_ , he’d said, and something flickered in the elder man’s eyes.  _I love him, and he loves me_ , he’d said, _can that be enough?_

            _Please?_

            His father had leaned over him then, pressed a kiss to his forehead before cupping Alfred’s face in the elder man’s calloused hands, tilting upwards so he met the other man’s eyes.  And without a hint of guile, his father had told him he’d love to meet the man Alfred had fallen in love with.  He’d love nothing more.

            And Alfred had been so, _so_ _happy_.

            And then…

            _It was nothing personal_ , his father had said after it was done, disdainfully cool and carelessly nonchalant in the light sprinkle of snow during the darkest hours of the night.  He’d brushed the accumulating snow from the shoulder of his jacket, flakes of pristine white stained with crimson falling to the ground, adrift in the light wind, before he turned to the devastated blue-eyed blond kneeling in the snow. _But he loved you_.  _It was opportunity enough_.

            _He loved you_.

            He’d never forget those words.  He only wished he could spit them right back at the bastard who’d sired him, who’d _used him_ to get back at his…at his – he choked on a sob – no, they hadn’t been his enemies.  They’d sworn a truce the moment Ivan had brought Alfred to them, and look.  Look at what had befallen him.

            That’s when he realized what he was contemplating.  And found, truly, that he wasn’t at all surprised.

            He could wait, he thought, as the world stilled around him.  He could wait, maybe a week, maybe more.  He could wait until his father was satisfied with the security around him, satisfied with his compliance, with his non-reaction, with his _obedience_ , and then he could call a meeting.  Breakfast, he thought, or tea maybe.  Enough where he’d be alone with his father.  The old man was smart – Alfred would never forget that fact – so poisoning Arthur’s tea would be impossible, but that was alright; that wasn’t his goal.  Poisoning his own, though…that he could do.  And the old man wouldn’t even see it coming.

            No, he dismissed with another thought, no poison would be enough.  His father would know soon enough – would recognize the signs and have the antidote.  Even if the old man had never contemplated what Alfred was thinking about, he was never less than prepared.  And even for now, it wouldn’t work, he thought, even as he fingered the vial in his coat.  His father may have left, but they were still watching him.  Every security camera in the area was pointed at him, along with the piercing stares of his father’s men.  Any poison he had, any that he’d learned to make – no matter how secretly he’d conducted his work – would be known to his family.  They’d have the antidote.  He’d neck it down and they’d _see_ , so they’d let him pass out before they grabbed him and shoved the antidote into his system.  And they’d never give him the opportunity to ever do it again.

            He considered, for a moment, about not going through with it.  Ivan had always been telling him – teasing him, mostly – that his impulses would get him killed one day, though perhaps he hadn’t realized, hadn’t dared to even consider, that it might’ve been Alfred’s finger on the trigger.  He thought of going home, of plotting revenge.  He thought of using all that ruthless anger, that cold fury, and the passion burning hatred into his soul that had wrapped around him in stranglers coils, like poison laden ropes holding him, tight and binding – using it all to break down his family’s empire inch by inch, person by person, until he could stand in front of his family and look upon the destruction he’d wrought, and say, _look, this is what you did to me_.

            But his father knew him – knew him better than any man _currently_ alive on earth – and he knew Alfred’s seething, simmering temper.  Arthur was like a firework – his fury bristled and erupted, and was gone, though his grudges ran deep and long.  Likely as not, he’d only heard his son’s pleas for compassion, seen the gleam of love in Alfred’s eyes and thought only of the advantage it would give him…Alfred pushed the thought from his mind as the world blurred through the tears.  He shoved them back ruthlessly.  The time for tears had long passed.

            His father would have him watched.  He’d already had a time and a half struggling to avoid the watchers when he used to sneak out to visit Ivan, and make sure none of their clandestine meetings went awry.  But his father knew his seething temper, his rage, and knew that if anything in the world could push cheerful, perpetually sunny Alfred into the black grips of true hatred, it was taking away that which he’d loved…

            That _whom_ he’d loved, rather.

            No, he realized, a cold, crystalline clarity settling into his brain, sharpening the entire world around him.  There would be too many people watching him, too many waiting for him to break.  There would be no escaping his father’s grasp if he willingly walked back into it.  And even if he didn’t, they wouldn’t let him be for long.  No.  No one could be allowed to interfere.

            He looked at the face of his lover – the one thing in his life he’d refused to _settle_ for, the one person he’d worked to be _equal_ to, so they could love each other avariciously with a strength that could never be forsaken – and tugged off his glove to trace the miraculously untouched features of his face.  Still and cold in death, his hands trembled as he slid violet eyes shut for the final time before they withdrew.

            He wondered idly, if it was stronger to deny his father that final triumph, or live to avenge the scarring betrayal.  Either way, it didn’t matter.  He’d made his choice.

            “I’ll see you soon, Vanya,” he breathed, his puff of breath fogging in the crisp, snow-laden air around him.

            And before they’d had a chance to read his lips, before his father’s watchers could move an inch towards him to pull him away like he knew they waited to do, he moved with the careless speed that didn’t show an ounce of fatigue or exhaustion from the long hours he’d spent kneeling in the snowdrift next to the body of his lover, his would-have-been fiancé.

            The gun was in his hand, the safety clicked off, before a breath had passed, and he raised it with steady hands until its nozzle pressed against the soft locks of golden hair on the crown of his head.

            The first shouts went up in the distance, alarm and horrified shock coloring their tones though their words lost to the sudden howling gale blistering around them, and Alfred let his eyes slide shut as he pictured how they’d woken up this morning – or yesterday morning, rather, given that it was probably past midnight into the early predawn hours of tomorrow by now – when he’d given Ivan a sleepy smile as he’d woken curled against his side.  And Ivan, who’d been up for hours, reading upright against the headboard of their bed – _theirbedtheirhome_ – had carded a hand through his hair ( _he’d loved his hair, so much, Ivan had loved it so much_ ) as Alfred stirred, and smiled down at him, warm and loving.

            _Time to get up,_ his lover had murmured softly, amused.

            _Can’t we stay in bed all day?_ He’d whined, nuzzling closer to the warmth of his to-be-fiancé, and Ivan had chuckled.

            _I’d miss my meeting with your father if we do_ , he’d pointed out, _I don’t think he’d be too happy with us, then_.  So, Alfred had grumbled and fussed but he’d moved away then.  And only an hour later, he’d kissed Ivan goodbye, wishing him luck, anxious and excited and ecstatic because his lover was going to meet his father and _he was so happy, everything would work out -!!!_

_My fault.  My **fault**.  Myfaultmyfault **myfault!!!!**_

            The sob choked in his throat, the despair of _what might’ve been_ crashing over him, and the knowledge of _who’d_ taken it from him struck all hesitation from him.

            The sound that emerged the moment he released the trigger was deafening, but Alfred didn’t hear it.  He didn’t hear the roar of the watchers finally making it to his now-prone form bleeding out on the snow next to his lover, having arrived just a moment too late.  He didn’t hear the thud his body made when it dropped into the snow drift.  He didn’t feel the pain as the bullet discharged into his skull and life drained from his body onto the crimson-streaked snow.

            All Alfred knew was that warm moment from that morning – _tooclosetoofarsolongagoImissyou_ – when he’d had everything he’d wanted, everything he could’ve ever wanted in life right there in Ivan’s smile as the other man watched him with warm eyes.  And even as his body fell, he felt arms – warm and strong and steady, unlike him – _catch_ him and pull him _up_.

            And then, he knew nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @rusame-secret-santa-2017 and @usagi323 for helping me with this fic! I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
